


The Taunts of Shadows

by Six_Lily_Petals



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age II
Genre: F/F, Fenris is a background relationship, M/M, Modern Character in Thedas, Modern Girl in Thedas, New Orleans, Voodoo
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-30
Updated: 2018-05-16
Packaged: 2019-04-16 00:17:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,699
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14152524
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Six_Lily_Petals/pseuds/Six_Lily_Petals
Summary: Marceline and her brother were born in Hati and when their mother passed, they traveled to the United States with their constantly absent father.  As they pour themselves and their funds into learning more about their roots, they end up being pulled in by Hawke and his gang.





	1. Never Lie to a God

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Spellweaver](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Spellweaver/gifts).



> The correct pronunciation of Sacha is "Say-shah"

**Sundermount, Free Marches**

Garrett Hawke stared down the Dalish archers and swordsmen. There wasn’t any apprehension on his part, he and his crew had faced greater threats in greater number.  

Two hunters spoke to each other.

“The Keeper is expecting this one.”

“Really?  I thought he’d be an elf.”  

“Alright, follow me through the camp. And no funny business or you’ll meet with our blades!”

Garrett glanced over his shoulder, nodding that they all follow, and reminding them all with a stern glare to keep their damn mouths shut. Fenris stayed close to his side. Varric grinned, eager to see Hawke wiggle his way out of this one. Anders gave a silent prayer, cursing the fact that Hawke didn’t let him just destroy the cursed thing. Isabela winked back and blew a kiss. She had no stake is this and found the whole situation ridiculous and amusing.  

The group made their way through the camp filled with elves, drawing eyes and hushed comments.  Keeper Marethari waited for them in the center of the camp and although she had expected Hawke’s arrival, she waited for him to speak first.

Hawke had the distinct feeling this was a test, however it did not have him waiver in his decision to lie.  “Keeper Marethari, I was tasked to bring you an amulet. I regret to inform you that, in the year since I arrived in the Free Marches, it has been stolen. The north has not been kind to refugees from Ferelden.  I’m sorry.”

“Come. Let me look at you.” A downward turn in the corner of her mouth spoke of her displeasure.  “You mean well, thinking that you have the answers. Too sure of yourself. It’s a fine line between confidence and hubris. A common fallacy in shemlen.”

“What was so special about this amulet anyways?” Isabela spoke up.  

No one in Hawke’s group was amused at Isabela’s ‘innocent’ question. Anders had already told them what was in it months ago, which was what had guided Hawke to his decision to keep it.

“A promise,” Marathari replied evenly. “A promise made by one whose words still have weight and therefore, it has terrible power. There are few things in this world stronger than a promise kept.”

Fully invested, Isabela kept at it. “Really? Such as?”

Fenris was ready to kill her.

“The repercussions of a promise broken.” Marathari pointedly looked at Garrett. “Remember that. I am the Keeper of this clan. It is my task to guide my people and to ensure the old ways are not forgotten.  As for Ashabelanar, I am tied to her, just as you are.”

The cryptic response of the Keeper left Hawke wanting to know more, but a young elven woman stepped forward before he could form a full thought. “Keeper, if I may. Let me go with them. I can help search for the amulet and – “

Marethari rose her voice and spoke over the woman.  “You have failed in keeping your promise, Shemlen. I would think it wise if you take my First with you and pray that the amulet is found with all haste.”

“Is this a punishment?” Fenris knew that anything of value was not readily given away. There had to be something wrong with the girlish woman.

“If it is, then Ashabelanar has been generous to you indeed, Stranger.”

“Hawke, let’s just take the girl and go.” Varric strapped his weapon to his back, eager to leave. “I don’t want to get stuck on the Wounded Coast at night.”

Fenris kept his hand on his sword. “She is the Keeper’s First which means she is a mage. Is another mage truly necessary?”

Hawke didn’t want her any more than Fenris, yet he also agreed with Varric. “Fine. Let’s just go.”

Hawke marched to the head of the group, leading them out of the Dalish camp with Fenris close to his side. He kept his eyes locked forward, a firm determined line set in his mouth, but his hand stealthily slipped into Fenris’. Fenris squeezed his hand back.

 

**Plaine du Nord, Haiti**

The house was small and crowded. The stale air mixed with the offerings of alcohol and tobacco that had been laid next to a large bowl of vegetables. Vodou followers ignored the siblings as they sang, chanted, or beat drums.

The money to get this far had been paid on the sly and as Marcéline and her brother where quickly discovering, money was expected at multiple intervals in order for them to be invited to this ritual.  Knowing the language was not enough. Having a Haitian mother wasn’t enough. The crime of growing up in another country is what had damned them from day one. 

At first, they were able to learn so much about the history of the island and snippets of the culture.  However, it was when they tried for active involvement they had met resistance. Many of their questions were not welcome and often caused offense unintentionally.  

The trip that was supposed to be a fun exploration into their heritage but had quickly turned into extortion.  

Sacha tapped her elbow before whispering in her ear. “The priestess wants another five thousand.”

“Five?” Marcéline nearly choked. They were in debt as it was.

Her brother was equally distressed and nervously ran his hands through his long dreads.  

“You explained that we’re not just tourists?”

Sacha rolled his eyes, “Blood means nothing in that regard. ‘Vodou chooses you’.”

One of the priestess’ followers joined them. “Hey, you pay or you leave.”

“We don’t have that kind of money,” Sacha pleaded.

“Then you leave.” The man had no sympathy.

Sacha tried outrage, “This is absurd, we have a right…”

“No, no. You are American. You don’t know what you are talking about.” The man’s eyes darted back to the priestess.  

The ritual had begun. The spirits, the loa, had been called down. The Priestess’ manner and stature had changed drastically. Her voice called out in a strange tenor.

The man listened then nodded as he turned back to the siblings, pushing them toward the door. “Your money is no good here. Go home.”

“What was that? Was that a loa speaking through her?” Sacha grabbed the man’s shirt to keep him from going back inside the home. 

With a broad, toothy grin, the man chuckled. “Yes, which is why you must leave now.”

They were pushed the rest of the way out on the stoop and the man, with a help of a few others, slammed the door firmly shut with the slide of a deadbolt.  

Sacha threw his body at the wooden barrier then slammed his fist against it. “Why!? Ask the loa why!”

When he kicked at the door, Marcéline pulled him away. “Ti frè, you’re going to get us in trouble.”

“What could possibly be worse trouble than a loa demanding that ‘no one touch us’. You heard it.” He turned to shout at the door. “I heard you! How the fuck are we supposed to walk away from that?”

“Kicking the door in isn’t getting us anywhere either. If we get arrested we have no way of getting back home.” She crossed her arms as she collected her thoughts, retracing how they had gotten here in the first place, hoping perhaps if they backtracked…

Sacha was thinking hard as well. “We’ll change our flight. We can try again tomorrow, maybe…maybe if go to the bank- “

“No, it doesn’t matter what we do. The guy said they won’t take our money, which I should remind you is totally gone, by the way.”  

Sacha blew out an exasperated sigh. “But we’re here! It’s there! We’re so close!”

They had had such grand expectations for this trip. Seeing it fall apart pained them both to the core.  They stood in the quiet street. Waiting.

The door didn’t open again.

“Fuck it. Let’s just- let’s just go to bed, alright?” Sacha passed over the car keys before sulking back to the rental.

It was a forty-minute drive back to the hotel in Cap-Haitien. Marcéline kept her eyes on the road, pretending not to see her brother crying silently in the passenger seat.  

 

**Hawke Manor, Kirkwall**

Garrett Hawke twisted the amulet on its chain. Knowing that there was some demon or spirit trapped within, he felt dirty for keeping it for so long. It was also the reason he didn’t try to destroy it or sell it to some merchant.  

“Having second thoughts?” Fenris walked into the study, stopping to stand behind Hawke.

“No, of course not. I’m just puzzled as to what to do with it now.” He dropped the jewelry back in its box and turned to face Fenris. “You have any thoughts?”

“I do.” Fenris slid his hands over Hawke’s waist to curve around his ass. Pulling them together he mouthed and licked at Hawke’s prickly, unshaven neck.

“Mmm, Oh, I like where your mind is at!” Hawke invited more attention by tilting his head to one side.

Fenris stood on tiptoe to bite at the other man’s ear. “I want you, Garrett Hawke.”

“Oh, yes, serah.” Hawke then met with Fenris’ lips with each word. “What. Ever. You. Want.”

“Less of this.” When he tugged at Hawke’s shirt, the burly warrior pulled it off immediately and tossed it across the room with a playful grin.

“You think I can take your shirt off with my teeth?”

“Don’t be a fool,” Fenris chided.

Hawke’s grin turned wicked. “Alright then.”

Dropping to his knees, he pressed his face against Fenris’ breeches. Using his mouth, tongue and teeth, he worked his hardest to try and get his lover down to his smalls. It was completely ridiculous, impossible and the type of silliness that Fenris loved about Hawke.

Impatience soon won out as Fenris ended up helping. Hawke kissed his way back up Fenris’ torso. He kissed his lover hotly and repeatedly before asking, “Bed?”

Fenris only managed a nod as his full attention was on getting Hawke down to his smalls as well. As soon as the garment fell to Hawke’s ankles, he began to walk backward, leading them upstairs to their bedroom.

The breeches were tossed haphazardly which inspired Fenris to remove his shirt and toss it as well.  Leading became chasing. The hunt was short and ended with Hawke tackling Fenris to the bed. 

Laughter filled the room.

Life had been rough in recent years for both men. Once they had realized their mutual attraction it was impossible to separate them. They made each other happy, helped them to forget and cope with the shithole that was Kirkwall.  

The last item were Hawke’s smalls which Fenris removed and tossed blindly. Unfortunately, they landed too close to a candle and caught fire.

“Oh shit!” Hawke leapt up to smother the flame, giggling. “I always said you put a fire in my smalls!”

“Not a word of this to any of the others,” Fenris demanded sternly.

“I don’t know…you think you can make it worth my while?” He crawled back into bed, his hands roamed all over Fenris’ body.

Their passionate kissing led to racing hearts and panting breaths. They wanted to give as good as they got. More tasting, more sucking, more licking. Their bodies naturally twined together and their hips rolled in time, their hard cocks rubbing together, urging the men to do more.

Breathless, Hawke paused to cup Fenris’ cheek and look him square in the eyes. “I love you.  I love you so much.”

“And I – “

An explosion erupted from downstairs. Without hesitation the two men were out of bed and on their feet.  

“Sandal?” It was a hopeful call that perhaps one of his enchantments had gone sour.

Neither had any weapons or armor upstairs. As a precaution, they used hand signals to decide to make a run for the gear they had left in the study. It wasn’t wholly unexpected when they were ambushed the second they left the bedroom.

Luckily for Hawke and Fenris they were in excellent shape and their fighting skills well honed.  Unfortunately, their attacker had the upper hand not only by sheer number, but also in his deliberate use of magic.

In the middle of bashing a thug’s nose up into his skull, Fenris felt his lyrium ignite sending him crumpling to the floor in agony.

“No!” Hawke’s distraction was just the break their attackers needed to subdue the robust warrior.

Face down on the floor, Fenris didn’t have to look up to know who had trespassed into his happy home.

“Danarius, you son of a bitch!” Fenris snarled. He tried to get up but the henchmen had him pinned.   

“Now, now Fenris. That’s no way to speak to your master.” The Magister walked to stand next to Hawke, nudging him with the toe of his boot. “The Champion of Kirkwall. I must say serah, I do not approve of the language you have allowed my little Fenris to pick up.”

“Fuck you, he’s no one’s slave!” Hawke tried to wrest free, but the three men had too firm a hold on him.  

Danarius snapped his fingers and Fenris was brought harshly to his knees, one of the men jerked his head back by yanking on his hair. Long boney fingers with cracked fingernails reached out to cup Fenris’ jaw.  

Danarius traced his thumb over Fenris’ lips.  “The lad is quite talented.” Applying some pressure, he pushed past the lips and was met with a wall of teeth. “Open.”

Fenris almost obeyed on instinct.  

It was Hawke’s outrage that kept his teeth clenched.  

“Touch him again and I’ll kill you!”  

“Well. We wouldn’t want that, now would we?” Danarius backed away from Fenris and gave a lazy wave of his hand to one of his men.  

The lout chuckled as he produced a cat-o-nine tails. Hawke flew into a wild rage, squirming and reeling with each crack of the whip. He screamed helplessly as the strips of thin leather cut into Fenris’ back.  The brute wielding the whip was sloppy which meant that sometimes he missed the back and cut into the arms or legs. Twice he hit incorrectly all together and the cords wrapped around to crack into Fenris’ sides.  

This wasn’t a new torture for Fenris. Old memories of Danarius’ ‘training’ were brought freshly to his mind’s eye. He could even smell the foul cologne his former master liked to use in the bedroom.  

The pain was brutal but Fenris refused to give the mage the satisfaction of calling out.  

Danarius gave a nod and the assault stopped. He stood over Hawke, placing a hand on the man’s shoulder. “I don’t understand why you are so upset. I did as you asked, I haven’t laid a finger on him.”

Hawke watched blotches of bruises form across Fenris’ body. The blood oozed from his jagged skin, soaking the carpet. Watching him suffer was a torture he could no longer bear. 

“Leave him alone. Take me.” Hawke’s bravado was completely deflated. “I’ll do whatever you want.”

“Hawke-“ Fenris called out.

Danarius kicked him hard in the shoulder. He had always been careful not to mar Fenris’ face.  

“Take me!” Hawke begged. “Please. I’ll do anything. Please.”

“You are a problem for me, Champion.” Danarius took two steps to stand at Hawke’s side, looking at Fenris the entire time. “Although you have kept my pet well practiced, I am rather put out that he has attached a sense of loyalty to you.”

A pause. Hawke and Fenris’ pants were the only sound, their fear and anxiety exhausting the last of their energy as their hearts beat furiously.  

Danarius played with his fingers and the aura color they produced. Fenris’ knowledgeable eyes watched the Magister filter through his repertoire of spells. First to be chosen was a gagging hex for Fenris. He wanted to cringe away from Danarius when he touched the underside of his jaw, but knew it would only make things worse for Hawke if he did. Nothing was actually there, yet the hex left a weighty feeling in his mouth, causing him to swallow instinctively, but uselessly. 

“What is this?” Danarius’ eyes were glued on Fenris although his question was clearly directed at Hawke.

Mouth agape and head swiveling to find an answer, Hawke remained silent too long.

A spark of blue lit Danarius’ fingernails. Fingers spread wide, the mage placed the tips on Hawke’s chest.  The blue intensified to bright purple and extended to slowly pierce into Hawke’s skin. 

Fenris squirmed and mouthed helplessly, shaking his head furiously for Danarius to stop. The smell of searing meat and singed hair assaulted his nose.  

Hawke gritted his teeth, bearing the pain as best he could. Until Danarius began to drag his hand across the expanse of his torso. Steady, slowly, Danarius carved through Hawke’s flesh as the man howled wildly. The torture was all consuming and Hawke’s mind was no longer his own.  

The sound reminded Fenris of all the blood rituals he’d witnessed. The ones he’d help to execute. The atrocity he committed on Seheron. The small part in him that had been hope died.

As soon as Danarius’ was satisfied with the length of the incisions, he lazily grabbed Fenris by the hair and pulled him nose to nose with Hawke. “What is this?”

There was no question what he wanted to hear, even one of the brutes whispered it.  

This time the fingers slipped in just below the ribcage and traveled up.  “Are you aware of how effortless this is? I cannot tire of it.”

The first set of lines had charred black from the magic. The second set crossed them in a bright red, the blood dripping until they too, cauterized. “You will not bleed out because I don’t want you to. No.”

Hawke hadn’t heard much of what the mage said. He was crying as his knees ached from the hard floor. The pain sent wild thoughts through his mind. Insanity. Suicide. He was ready to beg, ready to do anything to make it stop but once the haze in his eyes dimmed, he was face to face with Fenris.  

Maker’s blood.  Is this what his life was like?

Danarius delicately walked around to crouch behind Fenris. A wave of his hand sent Fenris’ handlers a few steps back. Danarius pressed his chest to Fenris’ back and rested his cheek on a shoulder to whisper in Fenris’ ear. “Kill him.”

Long, boney fingers rose up to caress Fenris’ shoulder, then glided down his arm to grasp his hand.  Danarius lifted and guided it to rest on Hawke’s chest. The skin was burning hot and slick with sweat.  Fenris was suddenly hit with the smell of burning flesh once again. 

“There.” Danarius’ voice was low and breathy. A hint of magic activated the lyrium in Fenris’ arm and Danarius carefully pushed Fenris’ phasing finger into Hawke’s chest. “Right…there.”

Fenris’ hand continued to follow the motion, his hand disappearing into his lover while Danarius’ hand drifted down to land on Fenris’ thigh.  

Hawke wanted to hold his breath but his heart beat too fast.

“Now, now, look what he has done to you.” Danarius used his free hand to tilt Fenris’ head to face him.  Dry cracked lips eagerly kissed at Fenris’ tears eliciting a delighted, sadistic hum. “Kill him, my pet.”

The hand squeezed Fenris’ thigh then inched higher. Fenris felt a drop in his stomach. The old commands. The old habits wanted to surface again. The muscle memory he struggled to forget and the instincts he tried to down with wine wanted to control him once more.

He cried harder.

Danarius smiled, then reached to cup Fenris’ balls.

“HE IS NOT A SLAVE!” Hawke howled and charged forward with freakish strength that shouldn’t have been possible. When their bodies slammed to the floor, Hawke belted as loud as he could, “FENRIS, RUN!”

Fenris vaulted over the balcony and rolled to the entryway. 

Obey. 

Get help. 

Up on his feet, Fenris began calculating who was the closest - Aveline. The city guard owed Hawke. The muscles in his legs felt as though they were peeling off the bone. His lungs heaved and screamed from the bruised ribs.

Get help, get help.

It repeated ceaselessly in his mind. Down the street he saw six city guards. They weren’t looking at him so he shouted.  He tried but the hex remained.

Hearing Danarius’ men gaining behind him, he tried to call out again. One more step and his knee buckled. The next step had the same result and Fenris found his face crashing to the ground. 

Blood clogged his obviously broken nose and he had the distinct feeling he’d bit off part of his tongue.

Rasping, he tried again.  Nothing.

“Get back here, you shit!”

This grabbed the guards’ attention. Using various swears to the Maker, they expressed their shock at the bloodied, beaten, naked elf laying in the street.  It was a race as to who would reach him first, the guards or the henchmen. 

A ray of hope lifted Fenris’ heart. We’re going to make it. Hawke, you lucky bastard.

The guards ran forward but stopped short suddenly. Confused, Fenris followed their gaze to look behind him. A blast of magic crashed over him. He heard Danarius screaming with fury but the loud ringing in his ears made it impossible to know what he had said.

There was heat. There was pain. The magic snaked through his body freely. Fenris felt his fingernails rip off, his eyes sank into his mouth, and slipped down his throat. His guts were pulled out of his core like an unwanted thread from a garment. More heat.

And then nothing.

 

The city guards stared at the charred, smoking glyph permanently seared into the street.

“Makers breath, there aren’t even any ashes.”

There wasn’t much time for them to contemplate what had happened. Danarius snapped his fingers and his men attacked the guards. Fortunately, the guards outnumbered the men, but once the fighting was over, it was clear they had been a distraction to allow Danarius to escape. 

 

**New Orleans, Louisiana**

“I’m going to the store, you need anything?”  

It wasn’t until Marcéline spoke that Sacha realized he’d been sitting on the couch staring at blank television. He rubbed at his eyes, “No. I’m fine. Just tired.”

“Yeah, long flight,” she lied.

Outside, Marcéline watched the city street lights slowly glow to life. Her bike would take longer, but they lived near the Garden district and the night didn’t bother her. Their comfortable apartment had once been a large home. At some point it had been split into three apartments, each one having two bedrooms and two floors. Although it was in a great neighborhood and was near her work, the biggest reason she picked it was because it was an adorable mint green.  

She rode past grand homes for single families.  Beyond gas stations and long blocks of stores. Peddling harder gave her a bit of a breeze through her hair. Even at night, the southern heat was unbearable during the summer. Long, strong strides pushed her bike past the congested traffic of tourists and down winding side streets. Her legs pumped harder and harder as her lungs pounded against her ribs.  Onward she went, unsure where, just knowing she was mad. Pissed at her family, pissed at father, the fucking trip…everything.

Coming to a quick stop, she closed her eyes to collect herself. Anger wouldn’t fix anything, change anything. Actions would. Worried she was too distracted to ride on the street, she pushed her bike down the sidewalk blindly following a walled off area. The brick wall turned, and so did she.  

“Alright dummy. The first thing you need to do is climb out of debt.” She kicked at a rock and felt a little better.

The stone jumped down the sidewalk, hit a piece of metal and disappeared. The sound drew Marcéline to a metal gate which allowed her to see what lay beyond the wall. Countless rows of above-ground tombs identified the area as Saint Louis Cemetery.

Staring through the bars an idea popped in her head. She immediately chided herself for being stupid and gullible.

And desperate.

Propping her bike against the gate, she used it to climb over the wall and leap down into the cemetery.

“This is stupid, this is so stupid.” She repeated this over and over, taking a break now and again as she read through the engraved names and plaques. Yet, her heart beat furiously with hope. She wanted nothing more than to try something, anything, to get answers.

After what felt like an eternity, she found it.  The tomb was plain, but it was the only one that had a mound of recent offerings. It was a stark reminder that she had nothing.  She cursed under hear breath as though she’d already been defeated, yet marched on.

Kneeling before the tomb, she scanned the offerings left by others, typically tourists.  Flowers, coins, candles, and beads were scattered all around. She turned off the flashlight on her phone and pocketed it. The pitch black consumed her surroundings as if she’d suddenly arrived somewhere else. The traffic on the perimeter of the cemetery provided a comforting background noise.  It grounded her.

One deep breath in, then exhaled through her mouth, she found the courage.

“Madame Laveau. I know I come to you empty handed, but I beg you to listen.” She stopped for a moment, wondering what to say. Placing both hands on the dirty stone, she began again. “I, my brother and I are lost. Our family has been broken apart and we don’t know who we are. We don’t know our history, our mother. We tried to do this on our own but we are denied because of the way we were raised. You were like us. You weren’t born into Vodou and we…”

She choked on her frustration, finally feeling the defeat she saw on her brother’s face that night they were turned away by the priestess. “Marie Laveau, I will make any bargain you ask, take on any burden you command. We just want answers, we- “

A sudden heat under her hands made her jump back.  She searched the ground, looking to be sure she didn’t knock over a candle. None were lit. She spun about looking into the black nothing to find the source of her discomfort. With her nerves on end, her ears picked up every little sound. Leaves blowing in the wind. Cars breaking at a traffic light.

Footsteps.

Frozen, she listened as they come closer. They were uneven and heavy as they crunched in the gravel.  She wanted to call out, but didn’t know what to say or what to do. Thinking of how to protect herself she had a terrible vision of herself tossing Mardi Gras beads from amongst the offerings.

A silhouette started to take shape and she remembered her phone. Jerking it out quickly she turned on the flashlight and screamed at the brief glimpse she caught of the man in the shadows. Remembering she was trespassing, she clapped her mouth shut and raised the light again.  

The man had hauntingly white hair that was flecked with blood. His nose was broken, his body was dripping with more blood, and bruises dotted his entire frame. The horror of what had been done to him delayed her recognition that he was naked.

“Oh, Christ, are you alright?” She artfully kept the light higher for his modesty as well as her tender stomach.  

The man squinted at the brightness and mouthed an answer, but nothing came except raspy noises.  

The longer she looked, the more details she noticed. He had beautiful emerald eyes and amazingly intricate tattoos scrolling all over his body.  

Then she was struck with a bizarre thought. This is stupid. You are crazy. As much as any rational person would agree, in her heart she felt it. The tattoos were too similar. Glancing back at the tomb, she nodded as a silent agreement to Laveau’s request.

She turned back to the man. “Don’t worry. I’ll take care of you.”

 

“What is wrong with you!? Why?  Blessed Mother Mary you’re insane!”  

“Sacha, look at him. Look!” Marcéline was in no mood to deal with a pissed off brother. Getting her charge from the cemetery back home had been hard enough. “You see it too don’t you?”  

Sacha ran both hands through his hair as he paced their small living room, still flabbergasted that a naked, bleeding man was sitting on their couch wrapped in an old bedsheet. When they’d returned from Haiti, he’d thought Marcéline was handling their situation better than he. Now she’d come back in the middle of the night saying she’d made a bargain with Madam Laveau.  

“Fine, fine.” Just to appease her and hopefully get the man out of their home, he approached the couch.

The man was thin, but muscular. He eyed Marcéline and she reassured him before he moved the sheet to expose his chest.

“Jesus H. Christ.” When she had barged into the house moments ago he’d thought she’d lost her mind.  Looking at the tattoos, or brands-it was hard to tell, the reality hit him like a ton of bricks. “Papa Legba.  Holy Mother Mary.”

“You see? Proof. Madame Laveau and the loa have asked me – asked us – to take care of this man.  Can I give him some of your clothes now?” She was impatient and already walking towards the stairs.

“Yeah, yeah.” Sacha mumbled, his gaze locked on the man. Once Marcéline’s footfalls disappeared upstairs, he sat on the couch. “I’m sorry for earlier, it’s just that…this is so strange. Do you have a name?”

The man shrugged.

“Do you not remember?”

He shook his head, then stared at the floor.

“Do you know where you came from?”

Another negative shake.

Sacha moved to put his arm over the man’s shoulders and he flinched. “Hey, hey, easy man. Easy.” He gently rested his arm on the stranger and gave him a light hug. “The spirits have put you in our charge.  I swear to you, we will not fail.”

 


	2. Setting Things to Motion

**Darktown, Kirkwall**

 

Garrett lay still on an uncomfortable cot. His eyes were wet and stinging. The muscles around them were weak and sore. For a moment, he had thought himself captured and stuffed in Danarius’ basement. The sounds of restless sleep, coughing, and sneezing all around him snuffed his fears and placed him in Anders’ clinic. The clinic was buried in the bowels of Kirkwall, far from any sunlight to give Garrett a hint as to the time of day.

Since his eyes were foggy, he tried to call out, but his mouth wouldn’t work the first couple of attempts.

“Fenris?” If he were here, then Fenris had to be too. “Fenris?”

It took every ounce of strength to roll over on his side for a better view of the clinic. His joints ached and his entire body felt as if a druffalo were sitting on him. The clinic wasn’t packed, but there were a good number of people scattered throughout. His eyes met with a small elven boy’s which prompted the lad to skitter off into Anders’ personal corner.

In moments Anders emerged, clearly have been woken. He yawned and rubbed at his face as he rushed to Hawke’s side. There was not a second wasted as Anders immediately began to examine him. 

“How do you feel?  Can you even talk?”

Anders’ probing made Hawke all the more aware of what a sorry shape he was in. “A little. Where’s Fenris?”

“Two times. We almost lost you two times! You’re lucky Aveline was able to carry you all the way down here,” Anders spoke with a lump in his throat. 

Anders’ hands moved slowly over Hawke’s body as he wove his magic. Garrett grabbed him as forcefully as his weak body could manage. “Where’s Fenris?”

This time, Hawke really looked at Anders.  It hit him hard, that brutal answer Anders’ didn’t want to give.  The lingering exhaustion of beating back death had worn the healer down.  He seemed to have aged three decades. Anders and Fenris hadn’t been close, but there had been some respect. 

The weight of mourning punched the wind right out of Hawke.  Fenris was the bravest, strongest, smartest man he’d ever met in his life. “No. Impossible. There is no way that I survived and he didn’t!”

“The city guards tried to save him, but Danarius – he, he cast a hex…there’s nothing left.” Fresh tears pricked at the corners of Anders’ eyes. “I’m so, so sorry. Aveline – “

Hawke flew into a rage. “Fuck Aveline and her fucking useless guards! What the fuck were they doing?  How in the damned Void were they unable to protect him?! If I ever see her again, I’ll fucking kill her!  How could she let this happen?!”

Anders’ sorrowful demeanor remained unaffected by Hawke’s outburst. If only placing blame could undo the past.  “She sat by your side for two days before Donnic took over. He only left a few hours ago. She wanted to be the one to tell you.”

“THAT DOESN’T MATTER!” Hawke twisted his fists into Anders’ robes and pulled him down to eye level. “This was in my home! That sadistic son of a bitch…”

The screaming had depleted his heated bluster to the point his head fell forward sobbing uncontrollably into Anders’ clothes. As the eldest, Hawke had always felt an obligation to be the strongest. When Bethany was killed by an Ogre, he had to hold the family together. When Darkspawn poisoned Carver, he had to support his mother with the hint of guilt that Carver’s death was his responsibility. Then a madman butchered her to pieces. Hawke had lost so much in such a few short years and endured it.  Fenris had been the last of what he considered family.

His home had been violated. The love of his life ripped from their bed and tortured before his eyes. A dam broke within him and it all came pouring out. 

Anders held him in return, his magic hummed as Hawke’s broken body suffered from his damaged spirit. It wasn’t much longer before Hawke fell back on the cot fully. 

Wheezing, he stared at the ceiling, not seeing anything. “Fenris almost killed me.”

The seriousness in the firm whisper made Anders skin crawl. 

Hawked tilted his head, his eyes locked with Anders’. “Danarius. He put Fenris’ hand in my chest. I  _ felt _ his fingers fidget around my heart. And the whole time, that monster kept  _ talking _ and  _ touching _ – “

It became too much and Hawke’s stomach lurched. Anders was quick with a bucket. There was already unknown rotting refuse within, but it mattered little to Hawke. Clear, burning stomach acid twisted his guts inside out as his chest convulsed. This couldn’t even compare to the worst of his hangovers. He ran his fingers over his teeth, nearly convinced that the foul bile had eaten them away. 

“Don’t do that. I haven’t had time to properly clean you,” Anders chided while helping Hawke to lay more comfortably on the cot. 

Now that Hawke was in a less critical state, Anders fell into the relaxed motions of hygienic care for his patient.  It was a well-known pattern his muscles performed with minimal mental effort. He was exhausted and in desperate need of sleep. Knowing that Hawke was out of danger would undoubtedly improve his quality of sleep. 

“Cursed mages.” Hawke’s statement came unprompted.

Anders’ efforts came to a full halt. His shoulders fell. Hawke had always been upfront about his reservations concerning mages. It was clear from the beginning that he only kept Anders around for his usefulness. Being possessed by a spirit of Justice had ensured Hawke didn’t attempt to be more than lukewarm friendly at best.  

Then, a whisper.  “Each one should be fed to the Darkspawn.”

Taken aback, Anders quipped, “What?” 

Hawke gave a small shake of his head and erased the foul look from his face. “Nothing. I just need some sleep.”

 

**New Orleans**

 

“Easy, you’ll choke if you don’t slow down,” Sasha kindly reprimanded their new charge. The man had an appetite like no other.

The three of them sat at a small table in the corner of the local soup kitchen. Their guest hadn’t been able to sleep and Sasha had stayed up with him. As soon as Mary’s clinic opened that morning he’d taken the man in to be examined.  

Mary was a kind soul who was raised up north but her medical studies had sent her south.  She ran a community clinic that charged next to nothing when possible. The waiting room was always full of those who couldn’t afford insurance or who weren’t citizens to qualify for insurance.  Mary didn’t care about politics, only the wellbeing of her patients. It was because of this that Sasha found her. An immigrant himself, Sasha didn’t always wait for paperwork when hiring for his construction crew.  Especially considering how bureaucracy could be, most of the time his guys never got papers. 

“Mary said his memory loss may be a type of PTSD or something. After seeing the marks on his back, she did an X-ray.” Sasha shook his head, still astounded at what Mary had said. “Poor guy has had it rough and judging by how old some of the injuries are, it’s been his whole life.”

Marceline leaned closer, for the sake of the stranger’s privacy. “Does she have a guess as to what happened or where he may have come from?”

“Her best guess is that he was part of a gang. Either as fight bait or maybe even a fighter. She’s seen body mutilations, like his ears,” at the mention of them, the man shook his head to further hide the points beneath his thick hair. “She said some gangs do stuff like that to mark their ‘property’. Sorta like when people crop the ears of pitbulls.”

“Sweet Mother’s mercy.  It is probably a blessing he doesn’t remember,” Marceline breathed.

The man stopped eating suddenly, setting his spoon down and squaring his gaze at the siblings. “It’s more than that. This, all of this - everything, is unfamiliar to me. How is that so? I cannot read, I cannot understand basic technology, and I jump at everyday noises. This cannot be normal. It is impossible for me to be so...helpless.”

His hair shifted, indicating his ears had dipped, ever so slightly.  

Sasha put a hand over his. “Hey man, don’t worry. We’re gonna take care of you.”

“As you have stated before. Who is this ‘Papa Legba’ to whom you owe such a great debt that you would appoint yourself my caretaker?”

Sasha gestured for Marceline to explain.  “Do you know anything about Vodou?”

“The word is not familiar to me.”

“That is actually probably for the best.  It saves us from having to expel any misconceptions you could have picked up from a shitty movie or something.  Vodou is a religion like any other. It is a large part of our history and culture. Our mother was once a revered Vodou priestess in Haiti. Our family was known for having strong ties to the spirits for generations. Then one day she met our father who was visiting Haiti on a mission trip.  She had fallen for him and the community was not happy about it. According to some, he used her love for him to pry her away from practicing Vodou.”

“When she died giving birth to us, our family was instantly shunned. Everyone believed it to be a punishment from the loa for betraying them. Father stayed for three more years until his Visa expired. I have heard rumors there was celebrations in the area when he left.” Sasha scoffed. “As if our departure were a ‘final cleansing’.”

“What are loa?”

“It’s another word for spirits.  When we came to the States, we didn’t receive much of a welcome either. White communities didn’t like us because we are dark skinned and blacks didn’t like us because we were immigrants. Our family knew of our mother’s ties to Vodou and never accepted us into their ‘Christian’ fold.” Marceline rolled her eyes.  “Apparently the spirits of Vodou don’t count whereas those of their Christian God do.”

Sasha hung his head slightly.  “It took us a long time to realize that we would never be apart of that world. We haven’t spoken to our father or his family in years.”

The siblings stared at each other in a small moment of silence. The trip to Haiti was not mentioned.

“Since then, we’ve been working to reconnect with our mother’s heritage, to reconnect with our roots.  Our true culture. We tried all we could to learn on our own, but we came across too many roadblocks.” Marceline bit her lip, unsure how the man would react to their ‘other worldly’ connections.  “Which is why we asked for help.”

The man nodded as he absorbed each word “I take it this is where Papa Legba comes into the story.”  

Marceline gave a weary glance at Sasha before turning back on their charge. “Yes.  The loa tend to be amenable to helping those who are willing to make an exchange.”

“My well being in exchange for your history. Interesting.”  The man’s head tilted and as he thought, there was a small twitch of his ears. “How did you arrive at this conclusion?”

Shrugging as though the answer were obvious Marceline stated, “When I found you, I had just made my plea to the loa and Papa Legba is the guardian of the crossroads.  There is no interaction between the world of spirits and the world of man without his say so.”

Pressing a hand to his chest, the man nodded. “And I bear his mark.”  

“The resemblance is uncanny, and the timing beyond coincidence.” Sasha concurred.

“Yet, you both are making a bold assumption. What if you are wrong?”  

Sasha breathed a small chuckle. “It wouldn’t be the first time I’ve helped a man down on his luck.  Most of the guys working for me have arrived in this country with no more than the shirt on their back.”

“It would be my preference that my dependency on your hospitality were kept to a minimum.”

“Alright, well, if you’re looking for work, I have plenty.” Sasha checked his watch. “I need to meet the boys for a roofing job at eleven. I’ll take you with me.”

“I shall need a name then.”

“You haven’t thought of one yet?” Marceline asked.

Rolling his shoulders, he shook his head uncomfortably. “All that have come to mind make me feel uneasy. I would rather you choose one for me.”

“Mm, a newcomer, learning a new way of life - how about Ellis? For Ellis Island?” Turning to her brother, she smiled when he nodded in agreement.

“Yeah, Ellis.  It sounds pleasing enough.”  Ellis used a napkin to wipe at his mouth and hands then stood.  “Whatever you need, I am ready to assist.” 

  
  


**Kirkwall, Low Town**

 

“You should have seen him. Maker’s breath, you should have seen the look in his eyes Merrill.” Anders paced Merrill’s tidy living area. “He - he is off his rocker! If you thought he didn’t like mages before, this - “

Merrill’s little apartment in the alienage was always clean yet rats still wandered through. She recalled Hawke once comparing mages to the vermin. In the time since she’d followed him to Kirkwall, all of her attempts to gain a favorable opinion from him had failed miserably. At times she wondered if she came off as annoying. Humans tended to be difficult to read.

“Oh dear.” She glanced at the morning’s purchase sitting on the table. “I suppose he wouldn’t care for a visit and a potted flower then, would he?”

“No! Flames, Merrill, I think you should leave!” When her expression fell, he quickly amended. “What I mean is, Hawke’s in a bad place right now - mentally. If he stays on this warpath, I fear for you. He knows you’re a blood mage and after what happened to Fenris, I’m seriously worried about what he might do.”

Merrill looked down to watch her fingers fidget in her lap as she thought out loud. “Would it stop at me though?”

“Hm?”

“His anger. Should he choose to take it out on me, or even if he managed to find Danarius, do you think it would stop there?”  

Anders sighed, realizing the connection she was making. “I - I don’t think so.” As Merrill drummed her fingers on the table, Anders expressed his caution. “Look, we have to be careful. Hawke is a powerful man. He’s in good with the Viscount and the damned Knight-Commander.”

Her fingers stopped and she smiled up at him. “True, but we have Varric.”  

  
  


**New Orleans**

 

Marceline woke early, quickly silencing her alarm to keep her brother from hearing it.  She dressed and tiptoed down the stairs. She nearly jumped back up them when she saw Ellis sitting on the couch wide awake.

“Sweet Jesus, Ellis, you scared me half to death. What are you doing up this early? I thought you and Sasha were up late at the Mercer’s place.”

“We were.”  

Marceline glanced at the bedding that remained folded from the night before. “Still having bad dreams?”  It wasn’t much of a question. It had been true of most nights for the two months he’d been living with them. “Would you like to do rounds with me?”

Considering Ellis showed no interest in video games or TV, she made the offer hoping to provide him with some distraction.  

He gave her one of his rare smiles, “I think I would like that.”

Marceline led the way as they visited each lavish home.  At Ellis’ probing, she spoke endlessly about the gardens. Originally she had been hired by a company to do basic weeding and pruning, but as her talent for landscape architecture and establishing successive blooming became evident, the families hired her outright.  The private residences had plenty of money to spend on foliage and Marceline ensured their investment was awed by locals and tourists alike. During the busy seasons of spring and fall, Marceline would have Sasha provide her with day laborers to keep up with the work. However, usually she was able to spread the work out to handle most of it by herself. Except mowing the grass. That was never appealing to her.

“I just love flowers and watching the plants grow and bloom. It’s amazing how we’re able to enjoy a plant’s life cycle within a single year. Then there are perennials that come back each year and I can shape and mold it in such a way as to accentuate its best features.” Marceline turned to check Ellis’ expression, hoping she wasn’t boring him to death.

He wore the same thoughtful, distant expression he always did, seemingly disinterested yet, somehow observant of everything.

She cleared her throat and tried a new avenue. “Have you thought about sleeping with Sasha?”

Ellis’ stopped immediately, his face flushed instantly. The redness even reached the tips of his ears.  Marceline couldn’t help but laugh aloud. “I meant, sharing the bed with him! Good Lord!”

“The couch is adequate, thank you.”  He ducked his head which was fruitless to hide his embarrassment.  

“Yes, but I bet Sasha’s bed is  _ more  _ than just ‘adequate’.” She chuckled again.

“If you are attempting to imply something, you are being excessively obtuse about it.”  

“Oh, please. Are you seriously telling me that you haven’t thought about asking him out?”

Irked, he narrowed his eyes at her. “Perhaps.”

Happy to have a subject they both could talk about, she gave him some advice. “Well then ‘perhaps’ you should ask him to go bowling. It’s one of his favorite things to do. He hates going with me because I always win.”

“So I should let him win?”

She burst into a fit of laughter. “Oh hell no!  I hope you kick his ass.” 

  
  


**Kirkwall, The Gallows**

 

“You sure you want to do this Daisy? If you get caught, you’re never coming out of that place.”

Merrill stood next to Varric on the docks. The depressing statues that framed the entrance to the Gallows put a nervous tingle in her spine. Having faced demons and experienced nightmare abominations, she felt this place held the top rank as ‘most frightening’.

“I’ll be fine Varric,” she answered cheerfully. “You did an excellent job! I even feel more servile in this. Do you think that’s part of the reason they make servants wear these? I wonder if the Templar armor makes them feel more Templar-y? I’ve never worn mage robes yet, always felt a mage…” Varric cleared his throat loudly. “Oh - rambling again. Got it.”

“Try not to get distracted and definitely avoid talking to anyone, got it?” Varric was uncertain which mess he wished to avoid the most - getting caught by the Templars or getting caught by Hawke.

Taking his advice, Merrill only nodded.

She hadn’t made it off the dock before the boots were rubbing at her heels. Walking felt even clumsier since she couldn’t feel the ground beneath her. Yet, instead of cursing the boots, she took it as a good reminder to be as quick as possible so she could toss the wretched things overboard.  

Maybe she should tie a string to them, in case Varric wanted them back.  Though, she doubted they could fit him. 

Carrying an assortment of letters that Varric’s contacts had slowly pilfered, she held them up to the first Templar that stopped her short of the main entrance. “I’m to deliver these.”

The Templar checked the name on the outside and gave a groan. “Alright, take them to the top floor, fifth room on the left.”

As good as Varric’s gold, the low level bookkeeper’s mail was too far for the Templar to suggest taking it in himself. With quiet confidence, Merrill marched inside.

Footsteps echoed through the stone halls. Voices behind closed doors created a constant mumble throughout. She was stopped at each stairwell by a Templar as she made her way through the Circle building. With each floor, the common noises faded and new ones nipped at her ears.

Harsh chastisement.

Screams.

Begging.

Cries for help.

As wrong as Hawke was, she could understand his anger. As much as he blindly hated mages, she hated the Circle. At least, the Circle in Kirkwall. She needn’t make broad assumptions.

The quiet of the top floor was a welcome relief. Bypassing the fifth door on the left, she sought out the main library. She hadn’t acknowledged her own doubts until she held the book in her hands. Her heart beat rapidly and her fingers trembled.  She honestly hadn’t thought she’d make it this far. Calmly, she took a deep breath then ripped the spine and cover off the book, replacing it with the one hidden amongst the letters. 

One the ground level, she wanted to sprint for the door.  Walking out into the sunlight and smelling the fresh, salty sea air took her breath away.  

“You there!  Hold!”

Merrill froze instantly at the command. Fear kept her from facing the voice right away.  

_ Easy - take it easy. Think of Isabela. Confidence. Swagger! _

“Yes, serrah?” It was only a moment’s hesitation, but it had been enough to leave the blonde Templar suspicious.

“What is your business here?”

“I delivered letters. Now I’m delivering ledgers to the Viscount.” She held up the forged cover, careful to conceal the ill-fitting pages.  

The man twitched his nose and stared at her uncomfortably. She felt a small probe. Willpower and a few weeks' practice kept her from reaching out to the Fade to defend against it. She had anticipated they may think she was an escaping mage.  

She mentally begged Mythal that he wouldn’t smite her.

Then the smite came, leaving her blind and the full distance of a courtyard and a dock from the safety of Varric’s ship.  

**Author's Note:**

> Sincere thanks to my beta, Maya, for all the exemplary help!!


End file.
